Hard To Breathe, page 24
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
“You're in the right place and antibiotics to help you get better are running into you now. The kids are safe. I'm safe. You're going to get well.” He squeezed her hand, wishing he could absorb her fear.
She looked into his eyes. A look he'd seen before in other seriously ill patients. A deep apprehension. Her brow already glistened again with sweat.
“I love you, Drake.”
He tried to respond but could not get the words out. It was not his injured throat that choked him mute but the thundering fear that stampeded his heart. He bent his head, touching his forehead to her shoulder. What did she ever do to deserve this?
“I feel so tired. Weak. Need to rest.” Her eyes closed.
His words came out a cracked whisper. “I love you, Rachelle.”
Chapter 56
University, St. Paul Campus
“Not here? Check again. It has to be here.” Memorial Hospital CEO Stuart Kline could not believe what the pharmacology researcher said. He scanned the laboratory tables, glassware, and analytic equipment as if he might spot the D-44 information himself.
Dev Patek, PhD, the university's drug development research coordinator, looked at Kline with his head cocked. “You requested that I check the materials for the research drug's molecular identity and synthesis information. You asked me to review the contents of the refrigerator and cabinet for a sample of the experimental medication.” The lean, graying scientist shrugged his shoulders. “I did that.”
“You found nothing?” Kline's voice broke. It can't be!
“I found chemical reagents—the materials from which drugs can be created. I reviewed the data you supplied.” He pointed to three large leather-bound volumes, a set of smaller notebooks, and a laptop computer. “I found procedure and results data.” He nodded to the four cages housing cats along the wall. “I see four animals and a record of their neurological exams. One animal is missing, the one that responded, which is not critical.” He shrugged. “What is critical is that I'm not able to find any description of the molecular identification of D-44, no synthesis information, and no sample of any specimen labeled as D-44.”
“But the drug and the formula have to be here,” Kline said. The researcher looked at him with his brow furrowed.
“It may be, but I have not found it. It may be labeled incorrectly. These drugs,” he waved toward a rack in which a few dozen vials sat, “are labeled as experimental medications but according to the notes, their use produced no improvement. The drug identified in the records as having produced improvement—D-44— is not here. No identified sample, no molecular identity, no synthesis information.”
“It has to be here.” Kline recognized he was whining.
“Possibly, but we will have to test each one, essentially repeat the animal experiments, to know.” The white-coated man shrugged. “Without a sample of D-44, a molecular identification formula, or synthesis instructions, there is no way for me to identify D-44.”
Kline stood open-mouthed.
“I recommend you check with your original researcher.” The scientist looked puzzled. “Please just ask whoever did the work. Their documentation is good. I'm sure whoever you obtained these materials from knows where the information is. Now I must get back to my own work.” He walked out of the lab.
Kline's guts were in knots. How could— Shit! Could the doctors have removed drug D-44 and its formula? But how? The seizure of the lab contents had been kept secret. During the seizure, Drake Cody was in the ER as a patient, Dr. Malar was in Duluth undergoing rehab, and wise-ass Dr. Rizzini was stuck in a wheelchair. A university attorney was on-site to oversee seizure of the lab contents. What could have gone wrong?
Kline whipped out his phone and clicked on his contacts. He fought panic as he waited for the connection.
“Counsel Afton Tait here,” answered the university attorney.
“Afton, this is Stuart Kline. You were on site for the seizure at the lab yesterday, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get everything?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely everything?”
“Er, well, yes. Other than their personal property.”
“Whose personal property?” Kline's sick feeling worsened.
“A Dr. Rizzini and an attorney showed up while we were loading. They made threats but I steamrolled them.” Tait sounded smug.
“I'm in the university St. Paul campus lab facility right now. Our top research guy has gone through everything and says neither the drug nor any of the key drug information is here. What was the personal property you're talking about?” How had Rizzini and their attorney known to be there? The seizure had been kept strictly need-to-know and executed around dawn.
“Some personal property, nothing more. A bottle of booze. One of the cats—they said it was a pet. A cage. Big drums of cat food and shavings. They took one medication vial, but it was clearly labeled as for Michael Rizzini. The guy is in a wheelchair. We couldn't take his personal medication. Their attorney was all over us. Lloyd Anderson, a guy I know by reputation—he’s tough. He threatened to call the cops with a claim of theft, but I flashed copies of the university's deed for the building and the residency agreements of the doctors. He backed down. They only took the one cat and the other junk. Nothing of value.”
“Nothing of value, huh?” Kline's gut was an elevator going down. “Possibly just a breakthrough drug and its formula that may be worth billions.” He felt sick. Had Rizzini and his attorney pulled a fast one? How could they have known?
“What time did Rizzini and his attorney confront you?” Kline asked
“They showed up just before the guys started to load the trucks. Sometime around eight o'clock. No one was there when we got there just after seven.”
“You may have blown this deal, Tait. Don't hold your breath waiting for any money from me. Say nothing about this to anyone else.” He disconnected. Shit! How did this get messed up?
The answer popped into his head. Torrins. It had to be Torrins.
Kline knew with an urge-to-vomit certainty that he'd messed up.
In the morning when he'd called to check on Drake Cody, he'd told Torrins they were seizing the research. Torrins must have warned the doctors.
That self-righteous asshole. Shit!
Without possession of the drug, his plan was in trouble. He looked around the St. Paul lab. Room fans and refrigerators hummed. A scent like lighter fluid hung in the air. The lab tables lay covered with complex glassware, burners, scales, and elements Kline couldn't identify. He knew nothing of science. Science mattered, but this deal was about money.
He had calls to make. People would be worried—powerful people. Everything should be in hand by now. He'd assured them it would be.
With possession of the drug, they'd planned to collude with the Swiss pharmaceutical firm. The skids had been greased. Money would flow like the Mississippi passing over St. Anthony Falls. Plenty for the university—and plenty for Ingersen Pharmaceutical. Most importantly, two large streams of dollars would flow to a certain special consultant named Stuart Kline.
Drs. Cody, Malar, and Rizzini should have been left with a shaky legal claim and nothing more. The university legal department wolves had said that with possession of the drug, the university would be able to close a deal with Ingersen Pharmaceutical in short order.
The doctors would spend years after the fact trying to get a piece of the action. Too bad for them—in the beginning they’d used their partner’s wife as their attorney and she was crooked. They didn't have their shit together and she sold them out. Too bad, so sad.
If all went as planned, Kline, his university collaborators, the university, and the Swiss firm would be swimming in money long before the courts made any decision. If the drug held even a fraction of the potential the science guys believed it did, there'd be plenty to pay off the doctors if the courts eventually ruled they deserved a cut.
If it ended up that the drug or its formula were not in the materials they’d seized, all was not lost.
In the worst-case scenario, they’d have to negotiate with the doctors. That shouldn't be too rough. Malar was a wreck, Rizzini a cripple who might never work again, and Drake Cody a criminal whose license to practice was as good as gone. No matter what had happened yesterday, in the end the deal would go through.
He, the university, and the Swiss firm still held the winning cards.
Hmmm. Things were messed up, but his wheels never stopped turning. Dan Ogren had once told him admiringly that he was “a sneaky bastard.” Ha! What Dan meant was that he, Stuart Kline, had the smarts to always come out on top. He knew how to make things happen.
He was going to be one very rich man.
Chapter 57
“Rachelle looks like early sepsis to me,” Drake said. “She’s deteriorating fast.” The worrisome clinical terms couldn’t match the sickening dread in Drake's gut.
Dr. Laura Vonser nodded. “The labs are pointing that way. Her lactate is elevated. I just talked with Dr. Kelly. We're using the sepsis protocol and admitting her to the ICU.” She paused. “Hopefully we can get on top of this fast. Is there anything else you'd recommend?”
“Rachelle asked me to let you know she wants to avoid pain meds or sedatives,” Drake said.
“She said the same to me but I persuaded her to let me use some Ativan. The sedation seemed to help. She's getting two liters of saline, antibiotics are running in, and she's gotten Tylenol. I've marked the margins of the cellulitis so we can track any progression. There's no evidence of a pus collection.”
Drake nodded. A line made with a surgical marker tracing the reddened margins of the infection on the skin provided a low-tech but sometimes useful indicator.
The antibiotic being administered to Rachelle was front line, but in the modern world, resistant bacteria were always a threat. Some of the killer bugs could swim in antibiotics. Choosing the right drug was a guess informed by knowledge and experience. Giving multiple or certain specific antibiotics could harm Rachelle and set her up for other life-threatening problems. The drugs were a two-edged sword. For every desired benefit, there was a horde of risks.
He made these critical treatment decisions every day—but not when the patient was the mother of his children and the person he loved most in the world. His mind twisted and spun. His hands were numb. He stared at his fingers as he opened and closed them. A sense of panic rose. He was drowning in helplessness.
Laura put a hand on each of Drake's shoulders and her eyes bore into his. “Partner, listen to me for a moment. You were raced into the Crash Room a little over twenty-four hours ago critically ill. Rizz told me about some of the other stuff you have going on. Things have not let you take it easy like your wise emergency doctor advised.” She gave a small smile. “Seriously, Drake, you need to take care of yourself. You know Pete and the ICU nurses will watch Rachelle like hawks—medically expert hawks. Let them do their job. You're not Rachelle's doctor. Try and get some rest.”
Get some rest? He'd likely advise the same if situations were reversed—but no way could he rest.
Laura's concern touched him. From the moment he'd walked into the department, he felt the support of the ER. His coworkers understood the stakes. Their nods and caring eyes could not be more eloquent.
Laura was right. Rachelle would be well cared for. The medications would ease her discomfort and help her fight the infection. Pete Kelly and the ICU nurses would provide the best of care. But—and Laura knew this—when you are a doctor you can't turn it off. He would oversee and evaluate every aspect of Rachelle's care. It was a responsibility that he couldn't free himself of—
“She's nail-tough, brother.”
Drake turned and found Rizz had rolled up behind him.
“Are you feeling okay, Rizz?” Rizz, now hours after his second dose of D-44, looked okay.
“I'm fine,” Rizz said. “Been here a couple of minutes. Laura updated me. So sorry Rachelle is so sick, but what I said is true. Rachelle has proved she's hardcore tough. She's going to be okay.”
“I hope you’re right. I'm standing here with my head spinning and my heart in my throat. I don't know what to do.”
“She’s in good hands. You know that.” Rizz lowered his voice. “It sucks, but you and I have another issue. Someone tried to kill you. We don't know who or why. We need to do some looking and I know where to start.”
“Right now, all I can think about is Rachelle and the kids.” The threat to him did not seem pressing.
“Of course.” Rizz nodded. “Taking care of Rachelle and the kids comes before anything else.” His expression hardened. “But you're no good to them if you're dead.”
Chapter 58
Homicide Office, early afternoon
“Any luck?” Aki leaned back in his chair as Farley dropped a fast-food bag on the adjoining desk, then sat down. Farley had made a food stop—no surprise. Aki suspected his fleshy, young partner spent half his paycheck on fast food.
Farley fished in his pocket, then held up a flash drive. He stepped to Aki’s side, took the stick, and plugged it into Aki’s desktop computer. He leaned forward and his fingers sped across the keys.
“This is from an outside security camera mounted on the third level of the parking ramp across the street. I screened the entire night and found this. It’s already been enhanced by the tech guys. No other surveillance cameras in the area. It’s all we have.” His fingers sped across the keys. “Just click ‘play’.”
Aki did, and a grainy, overhead view of a stairwell entrance, sidewalk, and parking ramp entry/exit showed. Across the street, the Chicago Avenue open air parking lot could be seen. A time cursor read 2:37 a.m. The old Dodge was one of only a few cars on the lot. The view was distant and blurry.
“The tech guys say the lens was frost-covered. No way to improve it,” Farley said.
An indistinct figure moved onto the lot. A large man wearing a heavy coat, a dark hat, and with a satchel on a shoulder strap strode directly to the doctor’s car. He paused at the driver’s door, then reached into the bag and pulled something out. He set the bag down, took a step forward, and leaned over the windshield as if checking the wipers on the driver’s side. Aki could see the man’s arms move, but no detail was visible. After less than a minute, the man straightened, turned, picked up the bag, and walked back in the direction he came. Neither his face nor his skin color were discernible. The image stunk.
“What do you think?” Farley said.
“Technically it’s lousy, but it confirms our theory,” Aki said. “That’s our guy. He leans over where the fan intake is. On an old car like the doc’s, he can get at it from the outside. Can’t prove it, but it’s clear we just saw him put the antibiotic powder in the fan intake. The guy is big judging his size relative to the car. I can’t make out anything else. Can we have somebody in forensics see if they can tell us more? Maybe a height estimate or something about the clothes or that bag? Can they tell if it’s a white guy?” Aki said.
“They have a copy and are going over it now. The guy wore one of those face-mask stocking caps. No doubt he was intentionally keeping his face covered.” Farley said. He sat at his desk, then reached into his fast-food bag and pulled out a large order of fries. He dumped the bag, and four wrapped burgers and a couple of ketchup packets tumbled out. He looked at Aki.
“Um, er, do you want some of this?”
“No thanks.”
Farley looked relieved as he grabbed fries with one hand and pulled a burger close with the other.
“It tells us a lot,” Aki said. “It’s a big guy who somehow knew Doc Cody’s car, knew its location, and knew the doc’s schedule. Most significant of all, he knew of his deadly allergy and understood how to expose him using the car. Very clever, but it gives us a lot to work with.”
“Definitely.” Farley nodded then loaded in a mouthful of fries.
“Dan Ogren is a really big guy. Q Jackson is at least six-four,” Aki said. “I think the neighbor guy Drake had a problem with is tall.”
“Listed as six-three on his driver’s license,” Farley said while chewing.
“With that hat and heavy coat, it could have been any of them in the parking lot.” Aki paused. “But does it really make sense that any of them would try and kill Doc Cody like this? Look at motive. Who has enough? Basically Drake just pissed them off. He’s not really an ongoing threat—is he? What would they gain? Is pissing them off enough of a motive?”
Farley swallowed. “I’ve been trying to zero in on what we discussed earlier. Who could know of his penicillin allergy and also have the medical sophistication to pull this off? I’ve started probing the hospital’s computer system, it’s well-protected from outside threat but there are thousands of caregivers on the hospital staff. I also learned that all the out-patient clinics are part of the network. Access is tough but not as limited as I’d hoped.” He took a bite of a hamburger.
Farley’s computer and hacking skills had proved to be game-changing in an earlier case.
“Do your thing, partner.” Farley was a rookie with a lot to learn, but Aki believed the young detective’s combination of technical knowledge and deductive skills had him on track to becoming an exceptional detective.
“As I think about what happened, something occurred to me,” Farley said. “If Dr. Cody had died the other morning, and by all reports he should have, there’d have been no suspicion. Everyone would have figured an inadvertent contact with the antibiotic at the hospital and a reaction right after he left. No one would have examined the car as closely as the ME did.” He started to unwrap another burger.
“It would have gone down as an accidental death. If not for Dr. Cody surviving and Dr. Dronen discovering the antibiotic dust, no one would have recognized that the exposure was intentional. Am I right?” He took a bite of the burger.
Aki frowned. The realization that someone could have gotten away with murder in his town pissed him off. The fact that the near-victim was a man he knew and cared for made it personal.
